


What Crowley Needs

by Twin_Devils



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Because of course he is, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Gentle Dom, M/M, Sub Crowley, Tender Sex, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), aziraphale is the top, bratty sub, crowley is the bottom, dom aziraphale, loving, rough treatment of crowley in the beginning, vague description
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 17:17:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19300231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twin_Devils/pseuds/Twin_Devils
Summary: Crowley has been alive a long time and he is pretty sure he understands what he needs and what he deserves, because of course he does. He's not an idiot and he knows he's a demon. He deserves the worst, as all demons do. Or does he? Perhaps meeting a certain angel is good for him. (Summary sucks but I wanted to write about Aziraphale healing Crowley in every meaning of the word.)





	What Crowley Needs

Crowley thought he knew what he needed. He had been alive for a long time, a long and dreadful series of events that danced with bad decisions and impulsivity. There was nothing more for a demon like him to do with hips like that than to find and take every dick that crossed his path. Roughly, like the 3 A.M. hookups in a bathroom stall where Crowley held onto a portion of haphazardly written “call for a good time” artworks while a very bullish young man who looked like he hadn’t called his mother in a long time judging by the neck tattoos pounded into him, bruising his hips as the man had done to the demons face in an argument turned fistfight earlier that night. 

Crowley felt that was what he deserved, what he needed. He wanted roughness, he needed scolding, punishment, hatred to light him up and eat him from the inside out. Being with all the great gluttons for sadism had been his point of pride; he’d felt the sting of Caesar’s whip, felt the hard and barbaric thrusts of Rolo the viking, and had known the pain only felt by those courageous enough to cry in Marquis de Sade’s chambers could know. His name, his original name, Crawley, given to him as a serpent destined to forever crawl beneath others in the mud, thought he knew his worth - thought he knew what he needed.

That is, until Crowley met Aziraphale. An angel with hair brighter than the sun and a smile twice as radiant, one who shielded him from the rain minutes after their first meeting, someone who looked at him and saw something. Of course, Crowley was the first to initiate something - demons do have needs after all - though the response he got was rather unexpected. When he pinned Aziraphale against a corner in a not nearly clean inn and pressed all of his body on him to ask, “Why don’t you make my day, angel?” It was half out of the desire that simmered just south in his trousers and half as a last resort. Crowley wanted Aziraphale out of his life. He was too good, too perfect, someone who could be a positive influence and the very thought made his skin crawl. Aziraphale was not what he deserved. Not what he needed. 

The expected reactions would have fallen under the angel flustering and leaving the inn, saying goodbye to Crowley, or even engaging a fight. What was not an expected reaction was for Aziraphale to purse his lips in a moment of silent contemplation before donning a furrowed brow to cuff Crowley’s chin lightly before adding sternly, “Certainly not with that attitude, young man.”

To this day, Crowley still reels at that, yet he still feels at a lot of things the angel - his angel does. Through Aziraphale, Crowley has learned that he doesn’t need punishment in the forms of abuse like he had so long craved for himself. Aziraphale teaches Crowley nightly with a firm hand and languid strokes about how worth everything his demon is. Delicate and soft fingers trace the pale buds of Crowley’s nipples as the angel praises him for how well he is enduring this. How good Crowley is being. How good Crowley is for him. How much he loves him. The demon shudders when his angel is inside of him, cooing coaxing words as he tenderly strokes his ribs and brushes his thumbs over the sensitive exposed hipbones, knowing that will draw forth a mighty slew of whimpered curses. Aziraphale holds his face just before their climax, pushing the dark glasses away and out of his face before telling Crowley, “Come, dear boy. Come for me.” Then it is cascading down: tears from the demon's eyes, screams from his lips, the walls he had built up so long ago, the come Aziraphale had ordered from him. 

Crowley even learned what he needed after sex, the one thing anyone else had wanted from him ever. Zira didn’t leave, he wasn’t like the others to pat Crowley on the ass, zip up his trousers and be off to never be heard from again. The angel held his boy, stroked his many hairstyles throughout the decades, calmed him with that voice he knew always stopped the crying. Aziraphale helped clean up, apologized for any bruising or scratching that he was unaware was his doing - as he still in over 6,000 years did not have a good grasp on the strength of his vessel - and often made Crowley flowering tea and biscuits. While the demon didn’t necessarily like tea or biscuits, he did love Aziraphale and the warmth both the food and his angel provided in the tender pits of his stomach along with his heart. So they sat, Crowley wrapped in blankets, with his head on Zira’s chest with those same delicate fingers curling through those darling red locks while the angel hummed and the demon snarked quietly at everything on the TV just to be dramatic. This was what he deserved, and this was who he deserved. 

Crowley learned through his angel what he needed, and Aziraphale knew all along.


End file.
